Handwriting
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: Grandma Tracy receives some letters on her birthday. Fluffy!
_Okay, this is what happens when I bounce ideas off ScribeOfRED…she makes faces at me, and then I write things!_

Grandma Tracy didn't know how long it had been since she had actually walked out to the mailbox to retrieve her mail – years, perhaps. Ever since she had happened to meet the mailman one day and noticed how hot and tired he looked, and had invited him in for lemonade and cookies, he had been bringing her mail straight to the door. More often than not, they would sit on the porch and chat for a while, sipping lemonade – or enjoy a cup of hot chocolate at the kitchen table, depending on the season.

She could set her watch by the mailman, and usually met him at the door. This day was no different – she glanced at the time and opened the door just as his chipper knock sounded.

He handed her a stack of mail that was somewhat thicker than normal, then bent down and gave her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Happy birthday, Gram," he said, beaming.

She smiled. "Thank you, dear. Won't you come in for a bit? Eileen brought me a lovely chocolate cake, and it's far too delicious to keep to myself."

He had long since given up any polite protestations when she offered food. "Sure, Gram, I'd love to!"

So she set aside her mail and had an enjoyable conversation with the young man over her birthday cake.

Fifteen minutes later on the dot, he set aside his napkin and stood. "I'd better get going," he said, as he always did. "Thanks again, Gram!"

She walked him to the door and waved goodbye.

With her deeply ingrained sense of discipline, she washed the dishes before settling down with her mail.

She opened the letters in order of importance, from least to greatest – a couple bills and advertisements first, then a few rather impersonal cards from distant relatives and almost-forgotten friends. After that, she opened the cards from closer friends, savoring each word of the messages they had written. Finally, though, her hands caressed a stack of five battered envelopes.

She knew that these letters had traveled the farthest to reach her Kansas farmhouse.

She flipped slowly through the envelopes, knowing which was from whom without even looking at the names on the return addresses.

Grandma opened Scott's letter first, recognizing it instantly by the bold, firm, precise handwriting. She smiled as she read his letter. If she had just skimmed it, she knew it would sound like a military briefing – minimal in detail and straight to the point. But knowing Scott as she did, she was able to read between the lines and pick out his sense of humor as he related what had been going on in his life lately. At the end, she shook her head fondly – Scott had told her much more about his brothers than he had about himself. That was Scott to a T, she thought – always thinking about his family and putting their needs above his own.

Next she picked out the envelope that had her name written out in fine, thin lines, every letter perfectly spaced. John's letter started out stilted and a little awkward – despite his silver tongue when speaking with victims of disasters, he really wasn't all that fond of small talk. But then, as he described a book he was writing, the pace of the letter picked up, sweeping Grandma along on the wave of John's passion – even though she didn't understand half of what he was telling her. When he finally trailed off three pages later into an abrupt and awkward farewell, Grandma set aside the letter with a gentle smile. That was her genius grandson!

The next letter made her eyes light up with admiration – her name was spelled out on the envelope in a swirl of exquisite cursive letters. It looked like Virgil had even used an old-fashioned fountain pen, adding to the effect. She unfolded the fine paper he had written his letter on – and blinked…was the paper actually _scented_? – admiring the beautiful artwork that was her middle grandson's handwriting. It could almost have been written by a woman, she thought, except for the strength clearly evident in the bold strokes of the pen. Virgil's letter painted a picture with words, taking Grandma's breath away even though he was only describing the everyday events of the island. Every scene he described was so vivid in her mind that she felt as though she had been there. At the end of the letter, instead of signing his name, he had sketched in a quick likeness of his smiling face, and it was so lifelike that Grandma's breath caught in her throat.

Gordon's letter had her laughing before she even opened it – he had decorated the back cover with a giant "Happy Birthday!", writing each letter with a different color marker, and turning the "i" into a birthday candle. He had evidently pulled a sheet of paper off a notepad to write his letter, leaving the jagged line across the top. The page was filled with his messy scrawl, and dotted with numerous exclamation points and smiley faces. He had her chuckling the whole way through as he described the pranks he'd been pulling on his brothers and funny things they had said. He ended his letter with a promise of lots of hugs and kisses the next time he saw her.

Alan's letter was written in a quick, firm hand, and was the shortest of the bunch. He briefly described some projects he was working on, but the thing – or rather, person – that came up the most was the name of a certain young Malaysian woman. He tacked on a P.S. at the end, wishing Grandma a happy birthday. Grandma finished Alan's hasty letter with a shake of her head – when were Alan and Tintin going to figure out that they loved each other?

She let out a sigh of happiness as she set aside the stack of letters…but then, after a moment, a slight hint of sadness crossed her features. There was one letter that she would have expected to find in the stack, and hadn't. She wasn't disappointed, _per se_ , she told herself. After all, her son was a very busy man.

But she had raised Jeff Tracy to be polite, and acknowledging one's mother's birthday was more than just polite.

All right, yes, she was disappointed. She had thought that Jeff was long past the days when he let his work block out everything else, but perhaps she had been wrong.

She stood to go put the letters away for safekeeping, but then paused as she heard a knock at the door. Leaving the letters on the side table, she hurried to see who was visiting. She wasn't expecting anyone, but it wouldn't be too surprising if more of her friends stopped by to wish her a happy birthday…

But it wasn't a woman outside her door.

Her heart suddenly overflowing with joy, Grandma opened the door and looked her handsome son up and down.

He was grinning boyishly, a huge bouquet of flowers nestled in the crook of his arm, and a pastry box balanced in his other hand. He stepped forward and bent down to kiss his mother on her forehead.

"Happy birthday, Mother," he said warmly.

And Grandma Tracy decided that it was indeed a _very_ happy birthday.


End file.
